


Clean

by Adoxography



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: After a long battle, Tomas puts Marcus back together again. Set anywhere post Season One but pre Season Two, spoiler free for the whole series.





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Forever and always thank you to the most amazing and patient beta reader [Shell_and_Bone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone/works), I owe you my life probably.

Hands, strong hands around his middle hold Marcus steady as they stumble over the threshold. If Tomas lets him go, he’ll fall; his legs won’t support him anymore. He’s weak as a kitten and trembling like one, too, but Tomas is steady and firm at his side. Marcus’ clothes are rank with blood and sweat and God only knows what else. Tomas got lucky. He was further back when the demon began to spew black bile from its maw, lips pulled back from its yellowed teeth. It will take forever to scrub the filth from him, to rid his body of the stench. The clothes, he’ll burn.  

Tomas guides him to the bathroom. He doesn’t fumble as he lowers Marcus into the empty bathtub. He takes off Marcus’ shoes before putting the plug in and starting the tap. It runs cold at first, Marcus lets out a small curse as it seeps into the seat of his pants and soaks his undergarments with tepid water.

“I can bathe myself, you know,” he mutters, cheek pressed against the cool, porcelain edge, his gaze rested on a pinkish stain in the grout.

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t even stand,” Tomas replies. He’s rolling his sleeves up past his elbows; it shouldn’t be so sensual. Tomas undoes the top buttons of Marcus’ shirt, exposing the puckered red and purple claw marks that start at his neck and run down past his clavicle. Tomas’ fingers run along the edge of the wound; it’s sore and it stings, but Tomas wears such an enchanting expression of sympathy he hardly notices.   

If it is a sin to relish this nearness, he has certainly been neglecting his penance, but it is hard for him to think of anything about Tomas as sinful. When Tomas takes his hand away, his wound seems to ache from the loss.

“It’s only a scratch, don’t be a baby.”

It’s only when Tomas chastises him he realizes he’s moaned like a child, wordlessly begging for those fingers back on his skin.

Tomas has found alcohol under the bathroom sink: Jack Daniels, cheap, ordinary, numbing. Marcus had been sure he’d hidden it well enough. He stands corrected as Tomas pours it into the puckered gashes.

“Waste of good whiskey,” he mutters.

“Good?” asks Tomas. He is using a rag to wipe away the blood and dirt. Marcus tries not to hiss and fails.

“Waste of whiskey,” he says, correcting himself.

The scent of whiskey burns his nostrils. It’s all over him, soaking his shirt, dribbling down his chest. It’s all over Tomas’ hands, the washcloth is sodden with it. He leans down, though his shoulders ache when he moves. He grabs Tomas’ wrist to stop his ministrations and raises those gentle fingers to his lips.

He tastes cheap whiskey on his tongue as the fingers slide inside. Tomas lets out the smallest, sweetest, gasp; Marcus grins despite his bruised and aching face. His teeth catch delicate skin. Tomas has the softest hands Marcus has ever felt, his fingertips smooth in his mouth.

“Marcus, I have to look at that,” Tomas says, but he does not snatch his hand away. Marcus takes the fingers deeper into his mouth, down to the second knuckle, his tongue sliding between the middle and index finger. Tomas gasps, “Marcus, please.”

Marcus is still covered in demon slime and muck. He lets Tomas go so he can fumble with the rest of the buttons on his ruined shirt. He manages only one before Tomas takes pity on him and pushes his hands away.

“You are so stubborn,” Tomas says, his voice low and quiet. Tomas mind is elsewhere as his fingers reveal the battered flesh of his torso. The skin is bruised fruit -- marked and tender. Tomas’ soft and talented fingers skim each red and purple bruise, brighter colour over old yellows browns and greens from weeks past, a painter's palette on his left ribs alone.

Marcus was the one who held the demon down and spat prayers at its contorted face when it broke its bindings and thrashed to get to Tomas. Tomas, who held his bible aloft like a shield. Tomas, straight backed and holy, light from the door shone through his black hair from behind. Beautiful. Proud. It would be the death of both of them.

“You did good today,” he says because Tomas needs to hear it. Marcus can see guilt when Tomas lowers his eyes to his battered body. He feels his hands tremble as they run over his shoulders and push the shirt down his arms. Tomas pulls the sodden fabric out of the water and throws it to the floor. It hits the cracked linoleum with a wet slap.

“Not good enough,” he replies with a grim expression.

“Now who’s being stubborn?”

Tomas doesn’t say anything to that. Marcus sinks deeper into filthy, lukewarm water. Tomas sighs and shakes his head, pulling the plug from the drain so he can fill the tub again. With the water gone, Marcus feels heavy, thick. Wet fabric clings to his legs and if he could barely move before, he’s immobile now.

Tomas fills the bath again. This time the water is hot and it soothes his aching limbs. Steam rises from the water and soon sweat is running down from his temples, stinging cuts he didn’t even know were there before. The water is cleaner now and Tomas dips his washcloth to rinse off the blood, pulling it sodden from the gap between Marcus’s thighs, the bathtub too small to find space anywhere else.

Tomas raises the cloth and wrings it over Marcus’ wounded shoulder. The water at least runs clean from the wound now, only slightly tinged pink as scabs soften to release grit they could not remove before. When Tomas dips the cloth again, he does not wring it out; he lets it drip down Marcus’ cheek as he dabs at a cut at his brow. The water runs hot and clean over his eyes and lips and into his mouth, a warm hand on his jaw holding his face steady.

His face is slick with new sweat, but the stickiness from before is gone. Tomas’ hands on his cheeks, on his brow, thumbs smoothing over deep lines carved into his face by time and memory. Strong, clean hands wipe the water from his eyes and bless him with their touch. He is clean as the cloth covers his face and washes away the last of the exorcism.

Tomas helps him from the water and he sits on the edge of the bath as the drain gurgles. Tomas starts on Marcus’ pants and together, they struggle out of them. The soaking fabric feels like ripping off a layer of skin, especially since the demon filth seems to have fused some of the fabric to the hairs on his thigh.

Tomas is so bashful once Marcus is naked, looking away when he passes him a towel. Marcus will not stand for it. He presses his body against Tomas’, his arms snaking around Tomas’ middle. Marcus’ forehead rests on the nape of his neck and with his collar long discarded, Marcus can reach the smooth flesh with his lips.

“Marcus,” Tomas mumbles, leaning back into his touch. No show of reluctance tonight -- there is no need to seduce him. They are both too tired for pretense.

“Make love to me?” he asks, mouth on the warm gap between Tomas’ neck and his shirt collar.

“We almost died.” It’s not really a protest, just an untimely observation. It has no bearing, it carries no weight when they are both alive and their bodies are pressed together, steam from the bathroom making Marcus hot, skin prickling with clean sweat. The towel around his waist does nothing to hide his growing interest and he is sure Tomas can feel it pushing against his thigh.

“You haven’t known anything even close to death,” Marcus replies, his hands are still weak and they struggle with Tomas’ buttons almost as much as they struggled with his own. He manages two before Tomas takes over. He hopes Tomas will never come close to death, never come even half as close as he himself has. “Come to bed.”

The motel room is laughable. The burnt orange carpet itches underfoot and the bedsprings squeak on both beds, but less so on the one closer to the door. Marcus needs to lean on Tomas to make it and his legs collapse out from under him when they do. Tomas follows him down onto the mattress; it screeches and shakes under their weight.

Tomas kisses him first, and Marcus presses into it. He needs to feel it, needs to feel him. Tomas’ body is heavy over his and the weight is an anchor, keeping him still, keeping him steady. His towel has long fallen and he is naked and damp while Tomas only has half his shirt buttons undone.

“I want to feel you,” he says, pleads, hands slipping into Tomas’ shirt and over his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Sticky skin burns his palms, coarse black hair through his fingers as he finds Tomas’ scalp to tug him down so he can kiss him again.

Tomas mercifully obliges, pulling his shirt over his head. He folds it over his arm and sets it down neatly on the floor. Marcus scoffs and Tomas shrugs bashfully. Tomas worries his own lip between his teeth and Marcus pulls him down so that he can do it for him. Tomas is so quiet. Marcus swallows his soft noises, sliding hot palms down the length of him until he can find his belt.

Marcus’ hands are of little help, so Tomas stands to undress himself. Marcus watches him slide out of his underwear and sit naked on the edge of the bed to take off his socks, too. Marcus rolls onto his side and in the dim light of the buzzing table lamp -- tired, battered -- Tomas is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Tomas meets his gaze and hesitates for a moment before Marcus reaches out with an open palm. Tomas takes his hand, letting himself be pulled down to lay beside him.

Marcus smooths wild hair from Tomas’ brow; he needs a haircut. Marcus follows his fingers with his lips -- he tastes salt. He wraps his arms around Tomas and clings to him, pressing their naked bodies together. In the quiet of their room, he hears the neighbour’s television through paper thin walls. He holds Tomas’ face in his hands, cupping his hands over his ears. It’s only them right now. Marcus turns off the light.

Marcus has often thought of himself as an empty vessel for God’s will; if this is true then Tomas is a fountain. In the dark, they move together. Tomas’ breath is hot on his cheek and Marcus’ eyes sting. 

“Tomas,” he sighs. It is a prayer on his lips. He wants to feel God again, he wants to feel Him the way he did all those years ago, pushing back against the darkness. Tomas is not God -- it would be sacrilege to say otherwise. Tomas is solid and tangible, yet touching him feels like the first time his mind was overwhelmed with that blinding, holy light. It cannot be a sin to feel God like this. Marcus is empty. Tomas fills him.

“I’m here,” Tomas replies.

“Tomas,” he moans. Marcus has his hand on the back of Tomas’ neck, cradling his head on his shoulder. He is lightheaded, dizzy with passion, Tomas presses down on him. His weight is an anchor.

“Yes,” Tomas replies again. His jaw has gone slack and his mouth is wet on Marcus’ neck. His breaths come hot and quick. Marcus feels each one on his skin.

“Tomas,” Marcus pleads, arms wrapping tight around him, pulling him closer, and closer.

“Ah—” Marcus feels the heat of Tomas’ ecstasy. Tomas trembles and shakes in his arms with the effort of keeping himself upright, holding himself over Marcus. He moves, kissing Marcus on the shoulder, his mouth too far away for his heavy head to reach.

Tomas does not let himself fall into him yet, does not allow himself to slump boneless into his arms until Marcus’ mouth flies open, until his head rolls back, until he squeezes his eyes shut.     

“Oh God,” is ripped from Marcus’ throat and he tries to smother it by pressing his mouth to Tomas’ head, hiding his face in damp, black curls. Then, and only then, does Tomas’ full weight press down on his chest.

His wounded shoulder starts to ache again, his bruised body making itself known. He grunts and shifts. Tomas rolls off him and the bed screeches its protest with noisy springs. Marcus turns over to press his body flush to Tomas’ back, arm wrapping around his middle. Tomas sighs with quiet contentment; he must be too tired to feel guilty. Marcus covers them with a scratchy motel blanket. When the sweat cools, they will be grateful.

With his mouth pressed against Tomas’ shoulder, Marcus lets himself drift.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways come hit me up on [Tunglr](http://largebisexual.tumblr.com/) I need to yell. Can't wait for Friday <3


End file.
